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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075884">Unraveling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias'>Ias</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>red thread [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mythology, Bathing/Washing, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Seine, Pre-Slash, References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:20:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The labyrinth called him back. Even as fresh air moved over his face warm from the heat of the sun, he could feel the walls of it rising up between him and the world. It was quiet and still and dark, in the face of the whirl of color and sound and chaos he had thrown himself into.</p><p>Part of him wished he had never left.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Javert/Jean Valjean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>red thread [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hoo boy, finishing this took a lot longer than expected. I knew when I finished unwinding that there was more to the story I wanted to explore, but the idea of taking on a WIP when I wasn't sure when I'd actually get to work on it was just a Lot back in March. So instead, here is the second of an inadvertent triptych of minotaur fic! </p><p>Though a sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961344">unwinding</a>, my personal feeling is you can skip that fic if you so desire, and that this part stands alone reasonably well if you're familiar enough with mythology to know that at some point there was a minotaur in a maze.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Javert was accustomed to fear. He had grown up within it, the way a seed germinated in the perpetual darkness of earth. He preferred not to think of the parts of his life spent above the ground, those childhood days before his horns had pushed their painful way from his scalp, when his monstrous legs could be hidden in baggy clothes and waved off as an unusual deformity. He’d lived beneath the sun, and it had been warm, and bright--but he would not think of it. The memory of light made the darkness unbearable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reality was little better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept his eyes squeezed shut, though he could not remember why. His mind drifted and wavered like wind-tattered smoke. There was pain--a familiar anchor. The agony of his leg radiated up his spine all the way up to the roots of his teeth. Great wracking shudders followed it, chased by accompanying aches and chills; something heavy pressed down on his body and made it difficult to move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cave in? The thought made a fresh spike of panic slam between his ribs--but when he feebly shifted his arm, it was not pinned in place by unforgiving rock. The weight which held him, he realized, was soft: the feeling so unfamiliar it was barely recognizable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forced his dry and gummy eyes open. The shapes around him were unfamiliar, only half-illuminated. The light was dim, but not dim enough. His eyes ached in his skull. There was something about the light, something he had to remember…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the darkness, something moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert’s breath froze. He tried to pull back, but his aching body would not cooperate; he could only flinch ineffectually as the shape came nearer, surely already raising its sword to plunge it into Javert’s heart while he lay too weak to raise a hand. He bared his teeth in a snarl--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re awake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice. For a moment Javert could not place it; could only tremble under a wave of instinctual relief so unfamiliar it felt like his own body’s betrayal. The shape towered over him, a hand reaching down for his throat--and he felt something pressed to his mouth, the cool touch of water against his parched lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drank without any conscious decision to, gulping down the water even as it spilled in rivulets down his cheeks. Too soon, the cup pulled away, and Javert groaned in frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy,” the voice said quietly. Something touched his brow. Javert flinched, as he would have under any touch; but the calloused palm merely lingered a moment, and then brushed the sweat-drenched strands of his hair away from his forehead. “You’ve been feverish for days. I had hoped it might have broken by now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was worry in the man’s voice, though Javert could not imagine its cause. His head ached, his thoughts would not coalesce, and he could not recall where he was or why that voice should make him feel so safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Valjean?” He did not the hoarse, ragged sounds which emerged when he spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the dim light and with watery eyes, Javert could see Valjean’s smile stretched thin with relief. He looked as if he had barely slept in days. “I’m here,” the man said. “Is there anything you need?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert closed his eyes. His stomach roiled at the thought of food. Given the fact that he did not urgently need to relieve himself, he suspected Valjean had assisted him while he was still insensate with fever. Shame only made the nausea worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this place?” Javert mumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean’s smile grew a little steadier. “A safe place,” he said. “How much do you remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert’s muscles began to shake harder. He was out of the maze. He’d known that, of course, on a distant level; now the truth closed that distance faster than a summer storm. Javert licked his lips, feeling them open like dry rock beneath a trickle of rain. He remembered the long walk through the labyrinth, the agony of every step. Valjean’s arms closing around him to carry him as easily as an armful of firewood. And then--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Voices. Chaos. A vast, terrible space. And a light so devouring it had scoured him to the bone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned his face away as far as his horns would allow, and his senses fled him again. He heard Valjean calling his name, felt the hand gently jostling his shoulder--he would not heed them. He waited for the darkness once more, called to it, dredged it out of the aching crevices in his skull; and eventually, as it always did, it rose up to envelop him. The darkness was what he knew. It was where he was belonged. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert retreated into a place so deep within the twistings and turnings of himself he was not certain he would ever find his way back again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was sick beyond illness. His body shivered and ached long after the fever broke, and he could not, would not rise from the small cot Valjean had made for him; could not even turn his face from the wall when Valjean sat beside him to murmur comforting words which may as well have been in a foreign tongue. Javert wished with a fervent desperation that he had never left the caves; that Valjean had killed him there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was aware only of distant things; that at certain times the room around him lit up with a terrible brightness, and at others he would feel the more familiar heat of a fire at his back, the flickering dance of flame clawing bluntly at the walls. Sometimes from just beyond the door he would hear a voice that was not Valjean’s--high and soft, it asked questions which Valjean answered with equal softness, and then the voices went away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was not certain how much time passed before Valjean permitted it to go no farther. Again Javert felt the weight dip on the bed; he expected the coaxing words, the entreaties to eat, to drink. Instead he felt a hand settle on his shoulder, lightly at first, and then with intention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Javert,” the voice said softly. “I am going to turn you over now so you can eat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Javert said, but it was so hoarse as to not be a word at all; and even if Valjean understood, he paid it no heed. Gently, Javert found himself turned; another hand slid beneath his head to ensure his horns did not snag, and though he groaned he found his body lacked the strength to even try and twist away. And then he was on his back; and the hand behind his skull was levering his limp body up, and Javert cursed him with a tongue which dabbed at his teeth as ineffectually as cotton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last Valjean had him propped up against a wall of pillows, and Javert could not fight him, lest he risk lashing out with his horns. Mercifully, it was night. Beyond the windows of the cottage there was only a pale darkness that Javert could almost liken to the thin light of the cave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There. Are you hurt?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert said nothing, imagining that if he remained still and silent he might slip back into the nothing-place he had been pulled from, as one might catch the threads of a fraying dream. But then Valjean reached for something beside the bed, and the hand returned with a bowl of something that made Javert feel as if his stomach was writhing in anguish. The smell summoned an unfamiliar, unwelcome moisture to his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that?” Javert croaked at last, as Valjean raised the bowl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soup,” Valjean said. “I dug up some wild roots from the garden, and flour to thicken it--simple fare, but no doubt that is best. Will you eat?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The edge of the bowl was lifted to Javert’s mouth, and he submitted to allow its contents to be tipped slowly past his lips. From the moment the warm liquid touched his tongue he felt that organ come alive in a way it had not since he was a child; it was near to pain, the intensity of the feeling, and he found his hand rising from its paralytic stupor of its own accord, to tip the bowl further back so he could drink all the more deeply. The warmth pooled in his stomach, and made his hands tremble; too soon the bowl was empty and he was left feeling taut as a filled wineskin, sucking his teeth for the lingering taste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was it?” Valjean said, hovering anxiously at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert opened his mouth to ask if there was more, and instead emptied the fresh contents of his cramping stomach into his lap. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stuck with bread and water after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite Javert’s best efforts, his lucid moments grew more frequent. He was forced to think; to contemplate his circumstances and how he had come to be here. Valjean tried to describe to him the circumstances after they left the maze: the audience with the king, in which Valjean had graciously argued that, since the bounty was for the creature’s head and he had left it attached to the body, he would happily accept only half of the bounty. The king would have his monster removed, and for half the cost at that--a bargain evidently too tempting to spurn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert--who had been insensate at the time, could not fully wrap his mind around this fact--that Valjean would sacrifice half of the treasure he had staked his very life on, and for what? The life of a monster who perhaps a day ago had attempted to kill him? Valjean had merely smiled awkwardly and muttered something about how he would have done the same for any man, which of course gave Javert a hearty snort. It shouldn’t have been necessary to remind Valjean that he was no man at all, but Valjean was strangely forgetful on that subject. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they had escaped the maze and, even more unlikely, escaped the clutches of those who had endeavored for years to exterminate him. If eking out his survival in the depths of the maze had been miserable, it had at least been familiar. Of all the terrible fates Javert had contemplated, being demanded to </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span> had never featured in even his wildest nightmares. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter his best attempts to remain lost in the comforting void of sleep, his body could not help but awaken to the smell of fresh baked bread and, once his stomach had resigned itself to richer food, the vegetables Valjean would roast with oil in the embers of the fire. Javert learned, for the first time, that it was possible to eat until he felt sick. When Valjean would enter his chamber to sit near him and offer a bowl of food, he found himself able and willing to sit up in bed; they would linger in a long and delicate quiet with the fire and the insect-song outside. At times Javert felt certain he would never know true quiet again; the world seemed so large and so full of sound compared to the tomb he had crawled out of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loathed it, as he loathed the light. His body craved the taste of food but his spirit rejected it. He knew he did not deserve it, any more than he deserved Valjean’s charity and company. And yet he was forced to bear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The leg is healing well,” Valjean said. He sat at the edge of the bed near Javert’s feet, which he had only begrudgingly allowed to be revealed beneath the blanket he kept thrown over them in the presence of others. The fingers Valjean used to probe the broken bone were so light atop Javert’s hair leg that he barely felt them. All the same, he knew they were there; some instinct urged him to kick them off like a fly. Bearing the man’s touch had been a matter of necessity on account of the broken bone, but the thought of Valjean’s human fingers on his monstrous hide was enough to make Javert nauseous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could imagine the dirty, matted texture of fur beneath Valjean’s fingers, and he despised the fact that this man should be forced to feel it. Even now he could feel Valjean’s fingers gently picking at the tangles in his fur, almost absentmindedly, as if Javert’s body were a filthy rug to be tidied. He turned his face further against the pillows, half-hoping to puncture one with a horn. He would rather have been a rug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is something else I thought might help,” Valjean said, and by the cagey tone in his voice Javert suspected it was to be something he would not like. “Do you feel strong enough to walk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve seen me walk before,” Javert snapped. Valjean might have replied with appropriate venom that he had seen Javert hobble pathetically around the room on the crutch Valjean himself had whittled before collapsing in an exhausted stupor, but instead he merely nodded with the same inscrutable courtesy that Javert despised all the more for knowing how little he deserved it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he shifted his injured leg to gently lower it to the floor; he even permitted Valjean to grip his elbow and help him to his feet before handing him the crutch. He did not ask where they were going--as it always did, part of him suspected he was finally being led to the slaughter. Valjean would surely have realized by now that to take pity on a monster would bring him only sorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert’s steps were short and mincing, a staccato chorus of clicks as hooves and crutch scraped the stones; he would have refused Valjean’s arm if he could bear it, but to let go was to fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallway they moved through was empty and silent. Javert scanned the closed doors but saw no sign of the whispering voice he’d heard outside his room. “Your daughter,” he gritted out between steps. “Where is she?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt Valjean stiffen in surprise, and barked a laugh. “I’ve heard you two whispering at my door. Did you send her away, lest she be frightened by the monster?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I asked her to wait outside because I thought you would be more comfortable,” Valjean said. Did the man never lose his temper? Little matter--Javert scarcely had the strength to continue needling him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they reached the kitchen Javert’s breath was rasping in his throat, a sweat of pain and exhaustion slicking his skin. If Valjean truly wished to get rid of him, he would have to dump Javert on his doorstep and demand he drag his body away beneath the unblinking eye of the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they did not turn towards the courtyard and the gate. Instead Valjean led him deeper into the kitchen, where beside the stove a heavy copper basin sat beside the hearth. The air was warm and close; as Valjean drew him closer to the basin, Javert could see it was full of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You intend to make a soup out of me,” Javert said, and was surprised by the short burst of laughter near his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A very lukewarm soup, I’m afraid,” Valjean said as they neared the basin. “I heated the water as much as I was able.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you might be more comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But to what purpose?” They were standing above the basin now, water within it still and dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you might like to bathe,” Valjean said, and then hesitated. “Unless I was mistaken…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I’d prefer to go wallow around in the dust like a beast, you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flicker of irritation moved over Valjean’s face, whisked away almost the instant Javert first glimpsed it. The man himself was a labyrinth, all sudden turns and blind ends. “Well then,” Valjean said levelly, and indicated the tub. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert did not reply. He could not recall the last time that his bathing did not compose of rubbing what icy water he could collect from the spring over his body; he had always ignored all but the filthiest parts of his legs, for he did not like to touch them. Hesitantly, he reached out to brush the surface of the water; it was warm as skin beneath his fingers. Part of him was certain that he ought to refuse on principle, but Valjean had clearly gone to much trouble for his sake--likely with the goal of making it more difficult for him to refuse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he had succeeded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may need help maneuvering my leg,” he said stiffly, and, leaning his crutch on the side of the tub, reached for the belt of the chiton Valjean had given him. He nearly snapped at Valjean to leave him while he stripped, but he could far too easily see Valjean rushing in moments later to find him naked and prone on the floor. He nearly climbed into the tub still-clothed. But in the end he permitted Valjean to help him peel the cloth from his body, until he stood bare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not look up to see whether Valjean was scrutinizing his body with horror or disgust. He was not certain he could stomach such a thing. Instead he closed his eyes, and tried not to shudder as Valjean’s hand slid under his injured leg behind the knee, to help him lift it into the water. Javert hissed in surprise as his hoof sank beneath the surface; the sensation of being submerged in warm water was utterly strange. And yet not unpleasant; Valjean permitted him to linger a while, growing used to it, before helping him clamber the rest of the way in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warm water slid up his body to his lower back as he settled awkwardly in the basin. He had to keep his legs folded up towards his chest, careful as always of his injury. Valjean had hurried away as soon as he was settled, and for a moment Javert merely sat there, vaguely baffled as to what was expected of him next; but then Valjean reappeared with a bundle in his arms, and handed Javert what appeared to be a hollow rock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pumice,” Valjean explained, on seeing Javert’s blank expression. “You--well. Perhaps I could show you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert did not even try to relax as Valjean set the rough stone between his shoulder blades and began to rub. Its roughness was unpleasant, until it wasn’t. Javert’s body wished to bow forward to grant Valjean more access, but he remained stiffly upright, unyielding. It was only a few moments before Valjean stopped, and handed him the stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like so,” he said, and the only gratitude Javert could muster was the conspicuous lack of a retort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He retreated after that, leaving Javert to muddle his way through the remainder of his cleaning. He scrubbed the pumice over his skin until it was raw, and then stared balefully at the second implement Valjean had left by the tub: a broad-toothed comb, and a brush. At least it was not a currying brush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grimly, he selected the comb. The water had already softened the mats which plagued his hairy legs. There was no helping it by hesitating. He set to his task with a cold fury, yanking the comb through the long and tangled hairs until his eyes watered. Bit by bit, the mats unfolded into dark strands which waved beneath the surface of the bathwater like grass in the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water was tepid and quite filthy by then, but he would not allow it to bother him--he was a filthy creature, after all. It was not so long before Valjean returned to help him out of the bath once more and handed him a linen towel. He needed three to sop up the water clinging to thick-furred legs; and Valjean presented him with a fresh chiton to wear, while the other was washed. Such excess could scarcely be contemplated; and yet Valjean offered it without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was as if the water had lifted something off him, more than the dirt and grime of the maze. His muscles ached as they hadn’t in days; his vision was bleary as Valjean helped him back to his room. As Valjean helped him down onto his bed, it struck Javert distantly that the hands on his arms and shoulders were not so hateful as they had felt before. Even Valjean’s careful assistance in lifting his injured leg onto the bed did not make nausea twist in the pit of his stomach. By the time Valjean’s footsteps were retreating towards the door, Javert’s eyes had already closed. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his sleep was long, unbroken, and sweet.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean sat at Javert’s bedside for a long time after his breaths became even and slow with sleep. Though it could not have been long past midday, the heavy coverings over the window and the light of a single candle cast the room in permanent gloom--a false night which Javert preferred, as it was all he had ever known. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The candle softened the face which sleep had already smoothed. In the weeks since they had arrived at the homestead, the collection of hard angles and deep hollows which had made up Javert’s features had begun, ever so slightly, to flesh out. It made him look far more human than the half-starved and filthy wraith which had accosted Valjean in the maze. His face looked almost entirely human, if Valjean ignored the curling horns which dented the pillow on either side of his head, and the leaf-shaped ears half-tangled in his dark hair. They were covered in a fine, short fur; they looked very soft, but Valjean doubted he would ever have the opportunity to feel them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with him, Papa?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up sharply to see Cosette lingering in the doorway, her eyes riveted on Javert’s sleeping form. There was a crease in the softness of her brow, her hands clutching the doll that Valjean had made for her not long after they first met. His first impulse was to gently but firmly send her away--for she and Javert had yet to properly meet, and he had hoped to introduce them under more controlled circumstances than Javert jolting awake to find her at his bedside. But he could see the apprehension in her eyes, mingling with the curiosity, and so with a final glance at Javert’s slack face and a finger to his lips, he beckoned her to his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment they regarded Javert together. He had pulled the blankets around himself as sleep took him, the gesture almost unconscious; even in the shallows of unconsciousness, his instincts were to hide his legs from view. Cosette’s eyes lingered on the horns and ears, as Valjean supposed was natural--children were often drawn to the same strangeness that adults found repellent. Still, Valjean doubted Javert would understand; he would see only the lingering eyes, and feel only the hatred he had borne his entire life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he sick?” Cosette said after a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean tightened his arm around her narrow shoulders. “In a way. It is difficult for him, being here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Cosette blinked up at him. “You said he was in a bad place before you found him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, he was.” Valjean considered. How to make a child understand how the world could break a man so many times that he retained the shape he’d been broken into? But of course, she knew far better than most. The thought put an ache in his chest. “Many people tried to hurt him, for a very long time. It is easier sometimes to believe that things will always be the same, than risk the hope that they might ever get better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette was silent for a moment. “I understand,” she said at last, her child’s voice soft with knowledge beyond her years. Valjean reached up to stroke her hair, fighting the eddy of painful memories which rose like ash from a long-dead fire. They had all of them come from bad places; in a way they each still lived in their own separate darknesses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he’ll get better,” Cosette decided, still staring down into his face. “Can I talk to him, then? When he’s well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image flashed across his mind’s eye, quick as lightning stretching over the sky and with the same startling clarity: of Cosette and Javert sitting side by side beneath the sun, the wind in their hair, laughing together--of the two of them raising their eyes to him, and smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked; the strange vision, if that’s what it was, vanished like the afterimage of the candle’s light behind his eyes. Cosette was looking up at him with wide and hopeful eyes; Javert slumbered in darkness, and Valjean could scarcely imagine his face set in a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shall see,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to his daughter’s hair. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When they first arrived at the overgrown farm, the roof had been so full of holes that it would barely serve to keep the rain out; the garden and fields so choked with growth it would scarcely be possible to clear it in time for the season’s planting. The well had been overtaken by the forest to the point that Valjean had taken half a day just to find it. The widow Valjean had purchased it from had not visited the property since her husband died and she moved into town with her son. Valjean had negotiated the sale on the day he left for the maze; she had failed to mention the state of the property to the haggard and hollow-eyed slave who could offer only promises to pay within a week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it did not rain; the holes in the roof let in the cool night breeze. In the first week Valjean spent hacking the garden into some semblance of civility, he discovered that some of the hardy crops which must have been planted before had thrived within the tangle. And the water in the well, when he finally pried off the warped boards which had been hammered in place to cover it, was sweeter than any Valjean had tasted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was difficult, sometimes, for Valjean to convince himself that he was not living in a dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every morning Valjean awoke to birdsong, and rose to the schedule of his growling stomach. He made his offerings to the gods, praying more fervently than he had even in the depths of despair. He cooked porridge and ate with Cosette at his side, with no one to hurry them along or demand they start their work. His new taskmasters were the hours of the day and the work with which they filled them. He spent the early days patching the roof, sweeping the rooms clear of leaves and animal droppings, finding new stones to shore up the brick oven. He chopped wood; he cooked what simple fare he knew; he told Cosette stories as she drifted off to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, he tended to their strange guest, who shunned the light and refused to step past the walls of their run-down homestead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One night, after their dinner was finished and their dishes cleaned for the morning, Valjean took the final portion of soup keeping warm on the hearth and spooned it into a bowl with a chunk of bread. When he glanced up at the prickle on his neck he found Cosette watching him, her eyes bright with curiosity. He smiled and bent to kiss her head. He could not know when Javert would feel ready to meet another person, even a harmless child. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you fetch a cup of water?” Valjean said in lieu of making a promise he might not be able to keep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Yes!” Cosette sprung up and seized a cup, running out to the barrel of water in the courtyard. Valjean watched her fondly, the weight of good food in his belly and the ache of good work in his muscles. And yet there was something missing from the perfect happiness of the evening; something which led Valjean’s steps to the one door in the house which remained forever shut, and to knock lightly with his knuckle and wait for a reply. As always, there was a considering pause; as usual, a hoarse, “Enter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean stepped inside, careful of the soup and water he carried. Nonetheless he was still conscientious about closing the door behind him before crossing the small room to the narrow table with its waiting clay lamp of oil— already lit, Valjean liked to think, in anticipation of his visit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert himself lingered by the window, which of course remained shut. His injury had healed well enough that Valjean might not even have noticed the way he carried his weight on his good leg if he did not know to look for it. As usual, a twinge of guilt sprang up at the knowledge that the man’s suffering was at Valjean’s hands--for he was a man in Valjean’s thoughts now, no longer a creature with a mannish face. Though he had applied such terms to Javert at first, it was impossible now to think of him as anything less than human. If Javert snapped and snarled and bared his teeth as a beast might, it was because men had taught him thus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought dinner,” Valjean said with a smile as he set it down at the table. Javert lingered on the other side of the room until Valjean himself was seated. Even in the gloomy shadows Valjean could see the tension in his body, as if after weeks of quiet conversation and bringing him food Valjean might suddenly leap up with a knife in his hand and start hacking off Javert’s head. The thought of all Javert had suffered was a pain in Valjean’s breast. But he kept his face mild and his smile in place, and after a moment Javert shuffled over to the other chair, hooves clicking quietly on the floor, and settled awkwardly into the chair. The sweeping curl of his horns bracketed his face, which remained turned down to the meal before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still you continue to waste your food on me,” Javert muttered as he picked up his spoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is hardly a waste. Cosette and I could not hope to finish it all ourselves.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert snorted. “Then perhaps you ought to make less.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean let that pass, allowing the man to finish his meal. Javert ate with the singular focus of one who had often gone without food. After only a few weeks of proper, regular meals, Javert now made the body which had staggered into the homestead when they first arrived look like a grey shadow of his true self. His skin no longer clung to his bones; there was a luster to his hair where before it had been matted and dull. And beneath the skirt of his chiton, his furry legs looked almost fluffy now that they had been cleaned and brushed. But he was careful not to let Javert see he was looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The garden is coming along well,” Valjean said as Javert bent over his bowl. “Enough of the plants have survived that we’ll have vegetables until the next crop is ready. The fields will take more work, and soon, if they’re to be ready in time for the planting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will you plant?” Javert said, in a spare moment while his spoon was in transit to his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve purchased some barley seed, and a little wheat. There’s a mill a half-day’s journey from here where we can have it ground to flour for our bread--I imagine it will taste even better when it’s made from the labor of our own fields and hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fanciful of you,” Javert muttered as he used the heel of bread to sop up some of the soup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean hesitated. “Perhaps you’d like to see it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert said nothing. He ate mechanically, though certainly not from a lack of enjoyment. “You wish me to go outside,” Javert said at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Surely you do not intend to remain in this house forever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps that is exactly what I intend,” Javert snapped. “Or at least, until you inevitably tire of the burden I place on your household, and cast me out for good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean stared at him. “Is that really what you believe I plan to do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert shuffled awkwardly. He had not finished his soup, but he laid the spoon down. His eyes were fixed on the lamp-flame between them. “I cannot imagine you would wish me to stay. Do not think I am unaware of the toll my presence must take on you: I am a drain on your resources, I can offer nothing meaningful in the way of work or compensation, and I insist on using space that you surely must have better uses for than housing a beast.” Javert’s mouth twisted bitterly. “If you had a barn, perhaps that would suit me better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not speak that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Does it hit too closely on the truth?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is so ridiculous that it does not warrant voicing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” Javert glared at him, crossing his arms again, nails digging into his flesh. “I can think of no argument against it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was true--there was no easy rebuttal that Valjean could offer, no denial of the facts Javert laid out, no matter how utterly contrary they were to how Valjean saw things between them. But he could see that would not be enough for Javert, who had built his life on the bare practicality of survival. No food to spare; no room for kindness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have given you nothing that I could ever begrudge, or ever intend on being repaid,” Valjean said softly. “I ask nothing for you in return, but what you already give.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I give you nothing but aggravation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t true, Javert.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, then, do I give you?” Javert snorted, gesturing to the bowl on the table. “Dirty dishes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile touched Valjean’s lips as he shook his head. “You give me conversation,” he said at last. “It has been a long time since I had someone I could speak with so easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert snorted, a dry, tired sound. “There is nothing about me which is easy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. Perhaps ease does not suit me.” In truth, he would never be able to believe he could deserve it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Javert looked as if he were about to ask. Their respective pasts hung over them as heavy as a storm cloud; a legacy of pain. Perhaps if they were to speak of it they might find they had much in common. But that was a conversation for another night; in the end, Javert merely snorted, looked away, and mumbled a question about the difference between barley and wheat, and they spoke of that and another easy things until at last Valjean’s yawning grew too overt not to comment on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is one thing you could do,” Valjean said at last. Javert watched him warily. “My daughter would like to meet you. Properly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert snorted. His fingers curved around the ceramic cup containing the water Valjean had brought him. “I cannot imagine why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is a child. She is curious. And you and I spend much time together--that is enough to pique her interest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmph.” Javert paused. His expression was grim, but it always was. “Very well,” Javert said at last. “I will meet her, if that is what you wish.” The fingers stretched on the table had curled into fists, but Javert’s intense gaze did not so much as waver. “You will need to inform me of what to say, of course. I have no experience with children.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Valjean said, a smile growing on his cheeks. He wished to reach out and clasp Javert’s shoulder, but the man was so leery of touch--and in the course of his convalescence Valjean had been forced to cross that boundary too often from necessity. He would not take that liberty now. He settled for bobbing his head in thanks, and reaching for Javert’s dishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand closed around Valjean’s wrist, warm and strong. “Wait,” Javert said. His eyes were fixed on the dishes before him, and then they lifted to Valjean’s, darker than even the shadows where the light of the candle could not reach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps you could show me where to clean these,” Javert said quietly, and Valjean’s heart leapt in his breast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” he said, and waited for Javert to gather them up, as careful as if they were the finest china. He lead the man to the door, glad that night had fallen; if he opened it on a torrent of daylight he suspected Javert would waver. Instead, an ordinary hallway awaited them beyond. Valjean walked down it as if he did not doubt Javert would follow, and there was only a moment’s hesitation before the click of hooves began to follow him toward the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Javert had professed a willingness to meet her, Valjean was glad to see Cosette had remained out of sight for tonight. He showed Javert the basin, and where to put the dishes once clean and dry; Javert worked quietly, his brows bunched in concentration. If his breathing came shorter than was natural, there was no need to comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last the task was done, and without pausing Javert hurried back to his bedroom door. There they paused; Valjean had expected Javert to hasten back into the dark, but he lingered with his eyes on the door, his lips pursed. The curve of his horns caught that faint light, and framed his face in such a way that seemed destined to highlight the sharp angularity of his cheeks, the dark curve of his brows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Javert said, as if Valjean had done him a favor by allowing him to clean his own dishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Valjean said. He kept his face carefully neutral. “There are certainly many household tasks which you might begin assisting with, once you feel well enough to try. The chores are many, as I am certain you can imagine, and Cosette and I can scarcely keep up with them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert blinked; his lips seemed to crawl strangely. “Finally putting me to work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you feel able to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha! You are tricking me, don’t think I know it. Of course I wish to repay you in whatever way I can, and if I must leave this room to do so, then I suppose you have me trapped.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I do,” Valjean said, smiling. “Goodnight, Javert. I will see you in the morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not wait for the man’s reply; he had made it almost to the end of the hall by the time he heard the door open and then close again. Even then Javert’s gaze lingered on the back of Valjean’s neck like the heat of a nighttime sun.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I ended up stealing bits from this chapter to lump into the other ones, so it's a little shorter than expected. But let's all just appreciate the literal miracle that is me managing to post on time for a change. </p><p>Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! I read every last one and they truly mean so much :&gt;</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The heat of the torch was inches from his face; in a moment his skin would blister and crack with that familiar, inescapable agony. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert snarled, reeling backwards, waiting for the knife, the arrow, the armored boot to brittle ribs protected only by a thin layer of scarred and filthy skin. Something had settled on his shoulder, as light and soft as a stray curl of hair, but he paid no mind to it. There was only the terror and the promise of pain, the heat and the light searing into his eyes, and the hoarse cry which tore from his throat could only have come from a beast. The touch on his shoulder was insistent now, small and gentle and shaking, and it was that which allowed him to tear his way out of the dream with a cry, throwing himself backward on instinct until his back hit the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the fear still pounding in his veins, there was a moment when he was utterly lost. And then he recognized the softness of the blanket on his bed, the smell of hay and bread. He was in his bed, in Valjean’s home; he was safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The band of sunlight stretched over his dented pillow right where his face must have lain; it was that which had summoned the dream. Two nights ago it had been a lump in his pallet digging into his back like a dull blade; and the night before that there had been nothing but the endless churn of terrible memories dragging him forever beneath the surface. Weeks passed with the ponderous certainty of a nightmare, haunted by the certainty that today, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this day</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they would come to drive him away. It did not matter who--the king’s men, a mob of angry villagers, or perhaps Valjean himself. Someone would discover him, here in this place of refuge; and they would come for him, as they always had. Surely it was only a matter of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert raised his hands to press his fingers to his eyes as if he could squeeze the memory of torchlight from them. In reality he merely pressed away the bleariness of sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were having a nightmare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert went utterly still, his hands still over his eyes. The voice had been high and soft, and came from just beside the bed. When he lowered his hands slowly it was to the sight of a small, bushy-haired figure lingering anxiously a few steps away, as if she had leapt backward--as any intelligent child should have!--at the flailing tangle of panic Javert had become on awakening. She held a cup of water in both her hands; he could see some had sloshed onto the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa always wakes me when I have a nightmare,” Cosette said, her voice level despite her beacon-wide eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert stared at her, his back still to the wall by his bed, utterly silent. This was the first time he had seen her while not in the grip of a fever; the first time she had spoken words he was sensate enough to comprehend. Despite his professed willingness to meet her, the time had never been right; Valjean had asked, and he had delayed. When the time came to complete what small tasks Valjean might have asked of him, he would wait until the light which managed to fight its way past the blocked windows in his room faded into the bruised blue of night, and the sounds of voices and footsteps from outside had quieted into sleep. Then he could step out of his room, and pretend that the blackness which waited outside any window left unshuttered was merely the darkness of a passageway in the maze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was not how he was meant to meet the girl. Surely Valjean had intended to be here to supervise--if Javert spoke now he would certainly say the wrong thing, and send her screaming or weeping from the room. Better to stay silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa has gone to the market,” Cosette continued when Javert did not reply. “He said I was to mind the house until he got back. I didn’t want to come in, but I heard you shouting and thought maybe the bad men had come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert licked his dry lips. It seemed he was expected to reply. “It was only a bad dream,” he said, which seemed an inoffensive enough response; but Cosette’s brows drew together in childish irritation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she said. “But it must have been a very bad dream.” She seemed to remember the cup of water in her hands--at one she took a hesitant step forward and thrust it at Javert. “Papa always brings me water.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Javert said, and with painful slowness reached out to take it. As he did, Cosette’s eyes darted to his feet; it was only then that he realized he had kicked off the blankets in his sleep, and his disfigurement was fully visible beyond the hem of his chiton. He yanked the blankets over his legs, managing to both startle Cosette into leaping backwards with a squeak as well as spilling water all over the bedding and himself. Inwardly Javert cursed himself; outwardly, he raised a hand in what he hoped looked like a sign of peace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry,” he said, his voice still low and hoarse with sleep. “I did not mean to startle you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette inspected him for a moment with the wariness of a wild animal that had felt the terror of a snare at least once before. “That’s alright,” she said at last, apparently deciding that he could be trusted. She took a hesitant step closer, curiosity still burning in her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa said he would be back before dark,” she said as Javert took a swallow of water. “He also said not to worry. Do you think it’s dangerous for him to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert blinked at this tiny, serious creature, utterly at a loss. He was not fully convinced that this was not some bizarre and anxious dream. Cosette’s small fingers were wringing in the fabric of her simple dress--it was then that Javert realized it was surely not only him the girl was afraid of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m certain your father can take care of himself,” Javert said. The reassurance sounded weak to his own ears, but Cosette looked up at him sagely.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he is very strong and very brave.” Cosette spoke this as an objective fact, and Javert was not inclined to disagree. Still, at the reassurance her fingers stopped their nervous twisting. She was scanning him now with those solemn eyes. Javert recalled that Valjean had said she wished to meet him; surely she was curious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you still sick?” she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert blinked at this apparent non sequitur. “I am fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why do you stay inside?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert opened his mouth, realized there was no answer he could reasonably give, and then closed it again. Cosette seemed undeterred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa said you lived underground,” she said. “That it was very dark and frightening. I wouldn’t want to be in the dark anymore after that. But Papa said it was complicated. Did it hurt when the horns came out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a moment for Javert to keep up with the sudden outpouring of words--and then, he felt his face grow hot. If Valjean had asked  him such a prying question about the monstrous growths from his skull, he would have shouted him out of the room. But this was Valjean’s daughter; and more than that, she was merely a foolish child--she meant no harm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t ask such things,” Javert said with what cold authority he could muster on barely two minutes of being conscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is rude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because--” Javert faltered. “Because I don’t want to be asked about them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette blinked up at him. Her eyes were very large. She seemed to shrink into herself, growing smaller and smaller. “I am sorry. Papa said to be careful of what I asked you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert opened his mouth to speak, and found there was a lump in his throat which had not been there before. What had Valjean told her of the strange creature living in their home? Had he warned her that Javert was liable to turn furious and cruel at a moment’s notice, should she but say the wrong thing? It would not be unfair to say so; it would not even be inaccurate. To be cruel was Javert’s nature; it should not twist in his stomach so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do not need to be sorry,” he said at last. But she continued looking as if at any moment she expected a blow; the sight cut into him as surely as any knife. “And yes,” he said, grasping desperately at whatever straws had been provided to him. “It did hurt a little, when they grew out--but mostly, it itched terribly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette looked up. In a moment the fear on her face was muddled by a thoughtful frown. “Itched? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not know. But I can assure you it was quite unpleasant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Cosette considered this for a moment. Javert braced himself for more painful questions. But instead Cosette asked, “Can you tell me about where you used to live?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was unexpected, but certainly not burdensome. “Well,” Javert said, and realized that some of the painful tension had gone out of his muscles at last. He was not weighing every word as he had been mere minutes before, and Cosette no longer looked ready to bolt. “It was a labyrinth, deep underground--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could you breathe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could you breathe underground?” Cosette said patiently. “Wouldn’t you use up all the air?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well--” Javert faltered, a frown pinching his brow. “There was a lot of air, I suppose. And there were holes that lead to the surface.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette nodded, satisfied. She had settled onto the chair by the bed uninvited, and yet Javert did not feel inclined to order her back into the empty, silent house. He cast his mind back, not to the pain and fear and blood, but to the cool darkness of the days when all was quiet and still. He told her of winding passages and high vaulted chambers, of being lost two days without a candle only to find his way home by touch. He told her of the time his horns had gotten stuck in a narrow squeeze he’d been sure he could fit through, and of the headache which had lasted a full day after he yanked himself free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not tell her of the torches and knives. And for a while they faded back into the darkness of his mind like the surface of some subterranean pool, smooth and unwrinkled by fear. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sack of goods from the market had gnawed an ache into Valjean’s shoulder by the time he turned the final bend in the road home. Cosette was not waiting at the homestead’s gate, but there was nothing alarming in that — though she had always come running out to meet him in the past. She had surely become absorbed in some new game and not been listening for the sounds of feet on the road. But when he stepped into the courtyard, his smile faltered; she was not playing on the bricks still cooling from a day in the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, the question in Valjean’s breast flared into full alarm. He dropped his burden by the door and hurried through the house, peering into the bedroom, the kitchens, the storeroom--true panic beat like wings throughout his body by the time he froze, breathing hard, and heard the voices drifting from the one room in the house Valjean had not thought to check.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He approached it, and saw that it was cracked open. Javert had always insisted it remained firmly shut. Valjean laid his hand on the wood and pushed it the rest of the way, silent as he beheld the scene within. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert sat at the table, and across from him was Cosette. Her legs swung beneath her on the chair as she spoke in animation about the time she had become lost in the olive fields and could not find her way back until after dark. The number of lamps lit on the table before them would have made Javert scoff at the waste, and yet now the scene was lit cheerily from their glow. Javert was listening intently; his eyes were softer than Valjean could remember seeing it--right until the moment Javert looked up to see him standing in the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately an expression came crashing over his face--one of helpless bewilderment and cringing fear. But then Cosette followed his gaze and cried out with joy, running pell-mell across the room and throwing herself into his waiting arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa! I missed you!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I you,” Valjean laughed, scooping her up and planting a kiss in her head. He kept his voice level when he spoke his next words. “Did Javert help keep you company?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yes. He told me I ought not to worry about you, since you’re so strong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not my exact words,” Javert muttered. In the dark it was difficult to tell, but Valjean could have sworn Javert’s cheeks had begun to color. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Valjean remained frozen, Cosette in his arms. It would have been easy to offer Javert a grateful nod, and carry her to her room--easy, and perhaps more wise. But though it was a choice whose reverberations seemed to shake the bedrock beneath his feet, he carried her back across the threshold into Javert’s room to sink into the other chair as if all three of them had sat around the same table a hundred times before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette babbled in his ear about trees that grew underground and flowers which glowed in the dark, but Valjean’s eyes remained fixed on Javert. He watched as the tension turned slowly to relief; as the fear relaxed into a gratitude that Valjean certainly did not deserve. He held Cosette close, and smiled at Javert across the candlelight--and from the creasing of dimples around Javert’s hard-set mouth, Valjean suspected that the man was smiling back. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Perhaps we might open the shutters? The day is very fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert paused in his needlework to squint at Valjean suspiciously. The man had come into the room to deliver a morning meal of bread and cheese, for Javert would not leave his rooms while the sun was up. Already Valjean had asked him if he might take down the linen tacked up in front of the shuttered window to strangle out even the suggestion of light--he had claimed to need the fabric, though Javert had his doubts. Now a weak scattering of sunlight could drift through the cracks as the sun made its pilgrimage across the sky, and Javert could watch their journey around the walls of his room with vague hostility until they paled, faded, and vanished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am glad to hear the day is to your liking,” Javert said stiffly, returning his eyes to the smock he had been ineptly mending. Valjean did not seem to mind the unevenness of his stitches, but their irregularity grated on Javert’s mind. “I do not see how it thus necessitates opening a window.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean set the plate on the table beside him, and sank into the chair with a sigh. He had seemed tired lately--the fieldwork was taking its due. But Valjean’s smiles came, if anything, easier than before. Javert could not imagine what there was to smile about, shut up in a dark room with a shaggy half-beast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You might enjoy the air,” Valjean said gently. “The flowers are blooming, and the sunlight--they are lovely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then they will have little use for an unlovely thing like me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence drew out so long that Javert thought Valjean had become lost in his thoughts. When the the touch settled on Javert’s shoulder, warm and gentle, he was utterly unprepared for it. Javert froze, his eyes fixed on his half-completed work; he could feel every callous on Valjean’s palm against the bare plane of his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t true,” Valjean said, very quietly. Javert wanted to turn to him, to scrutinize his face--to ask which part of Javert’s proclamation he took issue with. He wanted to open his mouth and explain that once he had loved the sun, and it had been the work of a lifetime to convince himself he never needed see it again. But all he could do was sit, rigid and unmoving, until that awful, intoxicating touch pressed his shoulder a little more tightly before finally slipping away. Javert felt it as an absence more than a presence; it had felt very natural, settled on his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call for me if you need anything,” Valjean said, and by the time Javert managed to raise his eyes he had left without further entreaty or cajoling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert stared at the door long after it had slid shut, glaring with a venom that was far from warranted. When he brought the food, Valjean had left a candle burning on the table beside it to compensate for the artificial night sealed into Javert’s room. Javert rose from the bed, his leg giving a weak twinge, and crossed the floor to extinguish it. He tried to ignore the click of his hooves on the hard-baked bricks as he walked; tried, and failed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the candle’s light disappeared in a gasp of smoke between his fingers, the light creeping through the gaps in the shutters grew bolder still. The red-gold richness of fire was familiar to Javert’s eyes; this was a paler, harder light, unnerving in its strangeness. Javert knew Valjean had expected him to be immediately swept up in the beauty of the world above the ground; had thought it natural that Javert would greet the sun like an old friend, long lost, now recovered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And surely that would have been natural. But Javert himself was as unnatural as any living thing on the face of the earth could ever claim to be. Surely Valjean was disappointed in him. For his cowardice, at the very least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought thrust into Javert’s gut like an iron poker. Before he was aware of his own body moving he was halfway across the room, fingers raised to the window latch and his mouth bared in a snarl of self-disgust--that he should have been reduced to this! Cringing from the daylight like some pathetic weakling, living off generosity he certainly did not deserve. In his life he had been many things, but weak had not been one of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet still his hand trembled on the latch, fury and instinct warring within him. The light seemed to press more insistently against the other side of the shutters, a deluge barely held at bay. It was only daylight. It could do him no harm, even if the things which moved beneath it might wish to see him dead. If Valjean wished it, he could face that much. With a growl, he yanked the latch free and wrenched the shutters open to a flood of brilliant light. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That may have been foolish,” Valjean said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his place in the bed, Javert made a low noise of discomfort, agreement, or both; Valjean only barely managed to repress a smile. Javert kept the heels of his hands pressed to his eye sockets as Valjean wrung out the cloth he had just damped in cool water. Across the room, the shutters had been pushed closed once again; but the latch had not been fastened, and a bar of yellow sunlight slipped past the shutters to paint itself over the wall above Javert’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean had heard his yell from the other side of the house; when he had rushed into the room, it had been to the sight of Javert kneeling on the floor in the midst of a pool of sunlight, his hands clapped over his eyes. For a moment Valjean had only stood in the doorway, frozen; and then he had hurried forward to shut the window once again, and lead Javert, blind and groaning, to the shadows of the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lift your hands,” Valjean said. “The cloth may help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not injured,” Javert said peevishly, but removed his hands all the same. His eyes remained screwed shut, his jaw tight; as tense as Javert tended to be by default, it was difficult to imagine he felt comfortable with such vulnerability. Still, there was something endearing in being able to more closely scrutinize his face than Valjean would ever have been permitted to with Javert’s keen eyes staring back. His horns dimpled the pillow on either side of his head; his hair, normally bound, was a dark and wild halo tangled among them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After only a moment’s hesitation, he draped the folded cloth over Javert’s eyes like a blindfold. Javert hissed sharply, and then slowly relaxed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not injured,” Valjean agreed. “But I imagine the experience was unpleasant, nonetheless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert grunted. “Perhaps my vision has been permanently damaged,” he said in his typically gloomy manner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am certain it is not,” Valjean said, struggling to keep the fondness from his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are strange shapes against the insides of my eyes. Surely that is not a good sign.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That will pass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem very confident.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I am an optimist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert heaved a sigh; Valjean knew without being able to observe it himself that beneath the cloth and closed lids, the man’s eyes were rolling. Silence fell between them; Valjean was on the brink of offering to leave Javert to his rest when at last he spoke again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would seem that the sun has no use for me,” he said. His voice was flatter now than it had been upon his projections of permanent blindness, and yet Valjean suspected the emotion went deeper. “I cannot even bear its light.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will take time,” Valjean said gently. He wished to reach out and console the man with a touch; instead he reached for the cloth, and turned it so that a cooler side would press to Javert’s closed eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not see why you bother with me,” Javert said, lying very still beneath Valjean’s ministrations. “I would be perfectly content never venturing outside again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean felt his face grow stony at the suggestion, though Javert was not able to see it. “I will not allow you to exchange one prison for another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prison?” Javert repeated in a tone of mild disbelief. “Valjean, when I say that I would be perfectly content, I mean it quite literally. I--this--I am very happy here,” he finished, tripping over the simple words nonetheless. “Happier than I ever thought possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mouth visible beneath the cool cloth over his eyes was sharply downturned in chagrin. “I am gladdened to hear it,” Valjean said, grateful that his own expression was not equally observable. As he turned the cloth again, he allowed the backs of his fingers to brush Javert’s brow--the closest thing to a friendly touch he suspected Javert would permit. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean and Cosette were in the kitchen when it happened. He was on his knees scrubbing the kitchen floor as Cosette tottered in with a bucket of water from the well. They’d been hard at work on the floors of the house all day, and now it was evening and their work illuminated by lamplight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cosette’s focus was flagging, and Valjean’s with it; she was giggling so hard at something Valjean had said that the water was sloshing from the sides of the pail, which made her laugh harder--and of course Valjean could hardly help but join her. And so he barely noticed anything had changed, until Cosette gasped and the bucket slipped through her fingers to clatter, mercifully upright, on the stone floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but her eyes were on the doorway. Valjean turned. The tall, thin shadow in the threshold leaned against the doorframe, a large hand gripping it for support. He kept his injured leg bent slightly, the majority of his weight on the other; yet the lower half of his body was slightly angled, as if trying to hide it beyond the door. The fearsome curve of Javert’s horns drew the eye from his face, which was tight with nerves. He hunched slightly, as if expecting a blow from the dark corners of the room at any moment. Valjean could see him shaking. For a moment there was only silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Javert straightened, ever so slightly. His eyes moved to the brushes on the floor, and the bucket of water in its sloshed puddle at Cosette’s feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just as I suspected,” Javert said, without a waver in his voice. “I suppose there are all sorts of these menial tasks you have been completing without my assistance. That is unacceptable. I must insist you allow me to help.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a beat of silence. And then Cosette turned to Valjean and said, “Can he do </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>chores?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean laughed—he could not help it. And when he looked up there was a smile in Javert’s dark eyes as well, one which only ghosted over his thin and immovable lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will start by helping with the floor,” Javert said, and stepped forward to pick up the bucket. He still walked with a limp, Valjean saw; but the splint was holding and his steps far more confident than they had been even a week ago. He deposited the bucket at Valjean’s side, and then made to kneel beside him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful of your leg--” Valjean said quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my leg, I’ll do with it as I please.” But Javert slowed himself, and did not shrug off the hand Valjean laid on his arm to steady him. When he handed Javert the bristle brush with which they had scrubbed the stones, the tips of Javert’s fingers where they brushed Valjean’s own were shockingly warm. He showed Javert what to do, as Cosette leaned over his shoulder and offered the occasional suggestion which Javert responded to with good-natured griping. Quite frequently his eyes would dart to the open window, and the velvet of night outside--or the two doorways which led to the rest of the house. But then his eyes would flicker to Valjean, and some of the tension in his shoulders would relax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the floor was cleaned and a cup of wine sipped, Valjean walked Javert back to his room. His limp was more pronounced, and he leaned heavily on the crutch which Valjean had carved for him; each step clicked and scraped on the floor, and he knew how Javert despised the sound. At the doorway they both paused; once Valjean would have followed him in, helped him into bed and then blown out the lamp. But something had shifted, and now Valjean knew Javert had moved past such allowances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like the lamp?” Valjean said softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You keep it.” Still Javert hesitated, not meeting Valjean’s eyes. There was a thrill of something between them, some unsaid sentiment so large it filled the space around them. But Javert shook his head, and like a cool wind battering back summer storm clouds, the tension finally shifted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Javert said at last, quiet and without looking up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean almost told him that it was nothing--he almost said it was just a floor. Instead, he allowed the smile tugging at his lips to spread. “There will be plenty more work for you tomorrow,” he said. “If you’re up for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmph. I see you’re wasting no time in putting me to work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naturally. I think you’ll find me quite the tyrant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somehow I have my doubts.” Javert still had not raised his eyes, though Valjean could hear the muddled tone in his voice which meant he was biting back a smile. At long last he lifted his head--a shy, darting glance, as quick as lightning, and it split Valjean to the core.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” Javert said, and then, “You can leave the door open.” At once he was gone, swallowed by the darkness of his room; but Valjean did as he was asked, and the open threshold behind him seemed less a grim portal than a path through which the light of morning might slip in.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert made it within three steps of the house’s threshold before he felt certain he would lose his nerve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door was open before him; Cosette was a slim shadow against the blue of evening beyond, her face illuminated by the lamp she cared as if her features were a second flame. The air on his face was fresh and sweet--it drifted in from the world outside, in which he had not set foot since his delirious arrival some two moons ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you are not ready, there will be other nights.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean’s voice was soft, almost directly in Javert’s ear; he could feel the man’s heat where he hovered beside him, not quite touching. Javert had abandoned his crutch some few days ago, as the ache had dulled to only the occasional twinge when he twisted his leg the wrong way. With it went the last reasonable excuse Javert had given himself for his unwillingness to venture outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet here he was--flagging like a horse before a river, like a beast of brutish wits incapable of overcoming his own fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Javert said, and drew himself up as best he could. “It will be tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean made a soft noise which sounded like approval. Still Javert remained frozen, staring at the rectangle of wild night which awaited him. Out there was the world which had driven him into a dreary hell; the world which had not been content to imprison him, but had actively sought his destruction. It was an unjust, unkind world. And yet Valjean seemed convinced that it was beautiful, too, and that it might welcome him back if he gave it the chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert had his doubts about that. But if he was capable of faith, it was all vested in the man at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert took a shaky breath. He could not turn his face to meet Valjean’s eyes. “Would you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valjean understood immediately. At once, the warmth of Valjean’s hand slid around his arm, lending him the man’s prodigious strength in spirit as well as body. Javert nodded once. And then he stepped forward, Cosette fell in beside them, into the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The courtyard was not so wide, and surrounded on all sides by walls; it would have been easy to pretend that they were still inside, were it not for the vast crushing emptiness of space all around them. Birds of the evening called in the trees around the house, and the wind in the leaves hissed like the simmer of water in a pot. For a moment he almost shrank back--until a calloused hand slipped unbidden into his own, and the pressure which closed over his throat had nothing to do with fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Javert managed. “This is not so bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was, perhaps, so bad--and yet he had not turned and fled yet, nor been struck down by a bolt of wrath from above. For a moment he stood quivering like a newborn foal, the warmth of home behind him and the shifting, terrible vastness of the world before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look up, Javert,” Valjean said softly. His hand tightened reassuringly on Javert’s. “The stars are beautiful tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Javert looked. His gaze moved past the patched rooftops over the courtyard walls, the trees leaning in like prying neighbors. He raised his eyes to the blackness beyond, which was not black at all--it was a blue so deep it drank the sight, and scattered with such an array of light that it seemed madness to ever name the night as dark. He stared upon the unfolding heavens which his eyes had not beheld since he was a child in his mother’s arms, learning of kindness and beauty before the inevitable lesson of pain. He stood for a long while, his head tilted back and his hands held tight; and he did not notice the tears until Valjean’s hand rose, as gentle as sleep, to brush them from his smiling cheeks. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WELLP, I sure tripped at the finish line in updating this one, folks. But hey, better six months late than never, right?</p><p>Thank you so much to all the people who continued leaving comments encouraging me to finish it (and special thanks to you, Emm, because without your tireless enthusiasm I probably never would have picked this up again &lt;3); I hope this will be a satisfying conclusion. I do have a final installment of this series currently drafted, so at my current rate it will be posted in approximately three years ;)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In the name of accountability, because I am a trash goblin, here is the update schedule I am going to desperately try to hold to:</p><p>Chapter 2: Aug. 26<br/>Chapter 3: Aug. 30<br/>Chapter 4: Sept. 4</p><p>If/when I drop the ball, consider this an open invitation to yell at me.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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